Ivalice Underground: Tales of a Darker Sort
by new found indentity
Summary: An assortment of darker short stories. Latest entry: The Grinning Man
1. A Fighter Named Kane

It happens to everyone.

You go out one night, looking to have a good time, don't really need an occasion, and you start to drink. You keep drinking, and soon you're on top of the world. The people around you are yours to command, or so you think. That's always a good time, until you wake up the next morning, hung-over, in a place you don't recognize, wondering what the hell it was you did last night.

This very thing happened to a fighter named Kane.

Just imagine what it must have been like for Mr. Kane, when he woke up on this particular morning on the cold damp pavement, with no recollection of the night before. Despite how dark the alley was, he was able to guess it was close to mid-day.

Just imagine the surge of pain that came rushing to Mr. Kane's head the instant he tried to sit up. Certainly it was the "early morning" hangover, or maybe he'd hit his head on the pavement when he passed out. It would all go away for sure.

Most of all, try to imagine how helpless he must have felt when he woke up that morning and could not remember a thing about what had happened the night before. Oh well, he'd just have to make the best of things like always.

_There's always a way to make things work…_

So what happened last night? Kane was just curious enough to find out. At least he could remember the name of the pub, The Prancing Chocobo. It was a slight chore to stand up, seeing as his head was still throbbing, but after a few minutes he was able to gather himself and was on his way. How on earth did he end up in a neighborhood like this?

Clearly Kane was in a bad part of West Cyril, a place for thieves and murderers; a land where judges daren't go. Because the people here don't play by the rules. Some don't have a choice.

But it wasn't a terrible place to be in the daytime. Kane had dealt with much worse. He'd had presence enough to keep his sword with him through the night, which is reason enough not to panic. Slowly the memories from last night were creeping back into his aching skull.

"You've been out on two jobs in three months," Celes had said. "You said things would pick up, and they haven't. It's a miracle your fighter's license hasn't been taken away."

"Times are slow," Kane had said. "You know that. I promise they'll pick up. Don't you think I've tried?"

"You haven't tried. You're one of the best fighters in Cyril. They used to flock straight to you with jobs. You just don't take them."

"I do enough to keep us afloat."

"No, Kane. I'm the one keeping us floating. You're dragging us down…" What point is there in arguing with a woman when you know they're right? "I think you need to go back to the clans."

Again with the clans. She always brings up the clans. The one thing that boils the blood. The thing that makes him remember what happened last time he was out with the clans. "That will never happen, Celes. Don't even try it." It's time to leave.

"Where are you going?" It's a rhetorical question. "So that solves it? You're just going to drink your problems away?" Again, rhetorical questions. Her eyes had started to water. "You don't normally drink on Wednesday. It's like you don't even care what happens."

"You're right, I don't give a shit what happens." It hurt so much to tell her that.

Kane remembered how he grabbed his coat, and went to storm out. And he remembered how Celes had grabbed his arm and how warm her touch felt. And he remembered her saying, "The pain won't go away. You can try to drown your sorrows, but it will all come back like it always does." She knew there was no use in trying to stop him.

Kane didn't remember if he told her he loved her.

The effects of the alcohol Kane had consumed last night were beginning to wear off and slowly he was able to piece together what had happened as he stumbled out of West Cyril toward the Prancing Chocobo. Certainly he had come here.

The Prancing Chocobo, the most popular pub in all Cyril, a stopping ground for clansmen and mercenaries passing through on their wars or missions, and a second home for people with the likes of Kane, jobless and hopeless.

But Kane was different from them. He'd been at the top. He'd defeated many a beast, endured the grind of the battle field. The thing that set Kane apart from the rest was talent. The great equalizer was his lack of desire. Kane's fire had been out for some time now.

Home at last… The Prancing Chocobo.

"Afternoon, Joba," Kane mumbled as he staggered his way back into the pub. It was the early-morning-nauseating-headache-mumble of a terrible hangover.

Joba was playing solitaire on the counter. Only in Cyril could you find a sober-for-life bangaa bartender in his fifties. "Figured you'd get an early start today, do ya?"

"Not today man." Kane marched his way to the nearest stool and collapsed on the counter.

"Water it is, Mr. Kane."

Only in Mr. Kane's state at that moment could the sound of a glass of water being filled sound as though he was right under a waterfall beating straight down onto his throbbing head. He was unsure of himself when he told Joba "Thank you," because he didn't feel like he had done him a favor.

"Don't mention it." He watched Kane sip his glass gingerly. There was nothing better to do in a bar in the middle of the day after all.

His head was throbbing. He rubbed it and felt a nice little knot right on the side, probably where he hit his head on the pavement. The lights reflecting off all the glasses in the bar were making his head spin. "So give me a rundown of what happened last night, Jo."

"I tell ya, buddy, you're lucky to be alive after last night."

"That bad huh? Why didn't you cut me off?"

"Oh, I cut you off pretty well last night, Mr. Kane. Well before I usually do."

Keep in mind how hard it was for Mr. Kane just to sip on his glass of water. "Sure doesn't feel like it."

"I'll tell you why you're lucky to be alive. You were messin' with the wrong crowd last night, Mr. Kane. You know, _Wednesday_ night?" Kane stopped sipping for a moment and looked his friend square in the eyes for the first time. Imagine what it feels like to plummet from a cliff that has no bottom, just the constant sinking sensation. This feeling had nothing to do with Kane's hangover. In fact, he felt quite alert now. "That's it, is it starting to come back a bit?"

There was a reason Kane avoided drinking on Wednesday's, Hakuza Nite. The Hakuza Cult was the backbone of the Cyril Underground, with strong connections to the Jagds in West Ivalice. They were the reason West Cyril was the way it was, it was the center of their operation.

It was a ring run by the ruthless boss Hakuza Sol, a legendary morpher who'd inherited the clan when his father, Hakuza Luna, grew ill. Sol rarely ever left the Hakuza Palace under his father's strict instructions. It is debated how much control Sol really had over the entire operation while his dad was alive. But what is known is his temper.

It is said that a man once wagered with Sol that he could bend his bow and hit any mark Sol told him to hit with his eyes closed. Sol wagered a vast sum that the man was a liar, and even named the target: one golden gil coin from one-hundred yards away. The man closed his eyes, arched his bow, and, sure enough, dented the one gil from one-hundred yards on one try. When Hakuza Sol refused to pay, the man called him the liar and a disgrace to his father's name.

The next day, that same man was found squirming in the streets of Cyril with his eyes gouged out.

"…Celes…" said Kane

It was time to leave. The Prancing Chocobo wasn't a suitable home anymore, now that the Hakuza knew he had been there. Time to go to the real home. To Celes.

Just imagine how it feels to know that a mistake you made could cost the life of someone you love.

It was a clumsy sprint; it must've looked like he had a broken foot. Having a hangover plus a throbbing headache plus the sensation that someone who wants to kill you could pop out of any corner makes an equation for a very frantic cumbersome-looking march. On top of all of that, its hard to run when the palms of your sweaty hands are grasping the hilt of your trusty sword because your life once again depends on it. This could be why Kane stopped halfway to throw up.

That sword, it had helped him out so many times. Back when he needed it. Back when he was gone all the time. Would he even remember how to use it now? That sword, when he was fighting the clan wars that sword was his best friend. Out on those jobs it was his only companion. Then he met Celes.

That sword couldn't do everything. Choices needed to be made. Sacrifices. Kane had had two loves, and sometimes, he couldn't decide.

Just imagine, how Kane must have felt when he told his wife that he landed the job of a lifetime, and how they would be set for life. How this would be the last big sacrifice.

Just imagine, how Kane must have felt, when at that same time his wife told him even more exciting news. She was pregnant. It was going to be a boy. Imagine the sacrifice, Kane made, knowing his pregnant wife was home all alone while he was off making their lives a little better. Until…

_It would have been a boy…_

It's finally time to come home. The man named Kane transformed into the fighter named Kane. Sword in hand, a clumsy but capable stance, and a flame rekindled were all the tools needed. Or so he thought.

A thick wood door is hardly an obstacle when in the state Kane was in. He had planned, hoped to kick down the door. But the sinking feeling returned when he found the door was already kicked in. He stumbled into the living room.

"CELES!!!!" he screamed.

No response.

"CELES!!!!" he pleaded again.

Nothing.

Kane ran up the stairs and tore into her bedroom. It's been too long. It wasn't like this before. Sheets are torn up. Stuffing from the pillows everywhere. Frames that once hung on the wall are now shattered glass on the floor. Kane's eyes darted everywhere. No blood. At least there's no blood.

She wasn't there. Try to imagine that despite the circumstances, for that brief moment, Kane could breathe easy.

It was a very brief moment.

Kane was reminded of how it felt during the wars, how you could never let your guard down. Senses were keen at all times.

That's how he knew there was a very big person standing right behind him at this very instant. That's how he knew this very big person, was swinging a very big heavy object right for his head, this very instant.

He was able to just dodge out of the way, but the hammer caught his foot. An agonizing scream came from Kane as he felt the bones in his foot shatter like a broken plate. He dropped his sword. Now it was just the two of them, Kane and the enormous creature looming over him.

The man who shattered his foot ducked into the room. He was a tall thick bangaa with dark menacing eyes. How had Kane forgotten those eyes from the night before? He had looked right into those eyes when he denounced the Hakuza name.

"Remember me?" it snarled. "Now you do!" it chuckled. He stepped on Kane's foot and he shrieked again in more agony. "Then you remember how you decided to open that great big hole you call a mouth last night." He unsheathed from his belt a long sharp curved dagger.

Kane had never been forced to beg for his life. He'd never been in this position. And he certainly wasn't going to go down without a fight. He reached desperately for his sword, and the bangaa monster kicked it just out of reach, accidentally stepping on his broken foot first of course.

"Oops," it chuckled once more. He began polishing the dagger. "Boss Hakuza knows about you. He knows alllll about you, Mr. Kane. That's how I found you so easily." He snorted something disgusting and spat it all over Celes' favorite picture, from their wedding. "That's how I know about her, Mr. Kane."

"I'm sorry!!!" sobbed Mr. Kane. Now was the time to beg. "Please!! Do whatever you want with me! But please, don't hurt my wife!!! She's done nothing wrong!!!"

"Ohhhh I'm afraid it's too late for that, Mr. Kane." Mr. Kane was grabbed by the neck and thrusted against the wall, with his limp throbbing foot dangling just off the floor. "You know what the penalty is for shooting you mouth off?" It's a rhetorical question. "You're tongue!!!" it cackled.

Kane felt his mouth being forced open, by a very big, very strong person, holding a very sharp knife, with a very big grin. Try to imagine how helpless Mr. Kane must have felt, how scared he was for his wife, how sorry he was that he couldn't remember if he told her he loved her. How he wished that he could tell her one last time.

_Shhhhhhhhhhhhtng_

The prying stopped, the knife fell, the very big person, with the very big grin now had a very long, very sharp arrow going through the back of his head. The bangaa carcass and the man it was holding collapsed, and Kane was able to see that at the doorway was a beautiful woman.

Celes. She rushed in to hold her man once more.

"Celes, how did you know?"

"You were gone for so long, I got worried!"

Just imagine how it must have felt for Kane, to hold the love of his life, once again. It's hard to put into words.

After what felt like an eternal hug, perhaps because both were afraid to let go, the fighter named Kane tried to stand up.

"You know now that it's no longer safe here," he told her.

"I know."

They gathered their things, and Celes served as a suitable crutch for the broken fighter named Kane.

As they left their home and their memories for the final time Kane turned to his wife. "Celes," he said. "I love you."

"I know," she said. "You told me last night, right before you left."


	2. The Grinning Man

There's always that man, in every bar and pub. In some places he just sits in the corner, where the lights are dim, or maybe his place is right by the counter where he sips his mug, watching the passersby. Perhaps he even has his own billiards table in the back, where he goes minding his business. In any case, every bar and pub has that guy, the man you don't ever mess with. Some people don't appreciate that.

Such a man could be seen on a rainy night in Sprohm at the Long-Ear Tavern.

In he limped during the Tavern's busiest hour, donning a dark brimmed hat, dark shades, a long black leather coat which hung to the ground, gloves that matched the coat, and jet black boots. From the hat dangled long wet strands of white hair which concealed what looked to be the shadowy boney outline of a face. He was a tall man with broad shoulders; so tall and broad that one would mistake him for a bangaa if it weren't for the emaciated arms and long slender legs. The coat, which was dripping with rain, dragged a damp trail as he shambled up to the counter.

Few noticed such a gawky man, but in a place like the Long-Ear Tavern, it seems he would fit right in with the darkest, foulest, sort in all of Ivalice. He marched his way right up to a stool on the end, and plopped down next to a great fat bangaa. "Just water," he told the bartender.

The fat bangaa snickered. "Ya 'ear that, Saunders? The guy wants water," he croaked, elbowing a lankier bangaa next to him. It seemed as though the man hadn't noticed. "I'm talkin' to you, Buddy," he croaked again, jabbing a great fat finger into the man's arm. Saunders jumped out of his seat and edged between the two.

"I'm sorry," he dryly chuckled. "It seems my friend here has had a little much… Please excuse him."

The man removed a few strands of hair from his face, and wiped his brow with a napkin, then grinned. "I understand," he said. He put the napkin in his pocket and continued his long toothy grin, his eyes concealed by the dark glasses on his face. "There isn't a problem here is there?"

Fatty bangaa decided to start up again. "As a matter of fact there is! The counter's for bangaas only! Not the likes of you. So take yer boney ass to a diffrn't part of the bar, er there's gonna be trouble!"

The man's face remained unchanged. He got up off the stool and began to make his way for a different table. But before he left he bent down to deliver one last thought. He tilted his head, and the pudgy bangaa was forced to gaze into the man's dark socket-like eyes. The smirk never vanished.

"I won't cause any more trouble," he whispered. "Not tonight." He tipped his hat and sauntered his way to a small booth in the back.

The fat bangaa watched him until he sat down and lit a cigarette. "What the hell does that mean?" he grumbled.

"Never mind," said Saunders. "Just grab another beer and forget about it."

After about four cigarettes a scantily dressed viera-waitress made her way to the back holding a glass. "Here's your water, sir," she said extending her hand. "Sorry it took so long, but the gentleman at the counter wouldn't tell me where you were." Five boney fingers met hers, and the man took the glass. The girl caught his empty gaze over his glasses.

"That's quite fine," he said, grinning and removing his hat. "What's your name, Princess?"

The viera smiled and tried to conceal a blush. "You can call me, Tracy," she giggled.

"Tracy…" he repeated. "That's a beautiful name… Tracy…" He finished his cigarette and put it out in the tray next to him. Tracy gave a short uncomfortable chuckle and continued to blush. "Tracy, do you know anything about the gentleman sitting right over there?" He pointed at the fat bangaa, who was now slapping another customer rather hard on the back and yacking it up real nicely.

"Oh him? That's Florence Magetti, and the fellow he's with is Mr. Tyco Saunders. Yea, old Flo used to be a regular here before he got slammed a few months back. They let him out a couple of days ago on good behavior, I guess. He's on probation now, and it looks like he's back here, makin' me earn my check again."

The slender man had already lit up a new cigarette. "I'd offer you one," he said. "But you're too beautiful to be a smoker." He winked and Tracy made another uncomfortable giggle.

"Anything else I can get you?" she asked.

"No thank you, Tracy." The man reached in his pocket and tossed the waitress a couple of gil. "You've done quite well."

The first week on the outside couldn't have gone any more smoothly for Flo Maghetti. The boss had already set him up with a decent job and he was incurring plenty of gil, while performing a couple of jobs here and there. Everything was going perfectly, and the authorities hadn't noticed a thing. And every night he would celebrate with his friends at the bars.

And every night he was at the bar, that man in the leather with the glasses and the water, was always there, puff-puffing his cigarettes, and staring blankly in his general direction with that same stupid grin plastered across his face; Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday… It was as though he was waiting for something.

It annoyed Mr. Magetti quite thoroughly, and he always made a point of shooting the man a dark stare.

"I'm goin' over there," he told Saunders one night. "Maybe he just doesn't get the message." He hopped down from his place at the counter and marched straight to the back. The man in the back didn't budge, still smiling and gazing at Mr. Magetti.

"Can I help you?" he said.

"Yea, you can cut the polite bull-shit!" snorted the great fat bangaa. The man continued his big toothy grin.

"I'm sorry, I can't help it, it's just my nature." This resulted in Mr. Magetti's fist slamming against the table, stirring the glass of water. The smirk vanished. "There's no need for that now, Mr. Magetti… It'll come. I can assure." He stretched out his hand, and Mr. Magetti recoiled his own, but the grinning man only grasped the shaking glass and took a sip.

The pre-prison version of Florence Magetti might have wiped that smirk right off his boney face. The pre-prison version would have sent those dark glasses flying across the room, and maybe even torn that hat in two.

Before the slammer Florence Magetti was Big Flo, a top hit man for the Langley Family, an organized crime ring that ruled from the streets of Sprohm, to the outer parts of the Jagds and a few ports in Baguba. He used to rough up punks that but gave him a cross stare. Big Flo was a name that people would keep a safe distance from in those days. It was something he would have to reestablish after parole…

It seemed it was time for a change of scenery.

The next night, Florence Magetti decided to meet his friends at a different bar across town, Carlyle's Brewery. "What can I do ya for?" said a burly bearded bartender. They always tend to be polite to newcomers.

"Just an ale, if you don't mind."

The barman poured him a nice full mug. "Will it be just you tonight?" he said handing over the frosty drink.

"Naw, I'm supposed to meet a couple of buddies." Flo took a sip. It wasn't the best drink in the world but at least he was away. "To celebrate." He finished the mug and slammed it down.

"Aye."The bartender took the mug and refilled it. "Well if you need anything just give me a call." Flo replied with a grunt.

Time in minutes passed and the drinks kept coming and going, and still no sign of the comrades. Mr. Magetti didn't mind so much at first. The newer quieter atmosphere was enough to keep him occupied, and the bartender seemed to be waiting on him alone.

Then an hour had passed and there was still no sign of anyone Flo knew. It wasn't a hard place to find, everyone knew it as "the other bar." After nearly two hours, Mr. Magetti decided it was high time to cut himself off. He didn't know of anyone who liked to drink alone. It was a group activity. What kind of person likes to sit there and just have a drink to himself?

" 'Cept for that psychopath leather man…" he heard himself mutter. He could see that long toothy grin now, crooked and yellow. How he would love to just knock that grin into the man's skull.

Everyone hates that feeling. How it feels to be blown off by your friends, as though you've been left out to dry, abandoned. Right about now, Big Flo didn't feel so Big anymore. More along the lines of worthless, unwanted…

"You're not so Big in the slammer, are ya Flo?" It was Mr. District Attorney. He blew a nice big puff of smoke right into his great chubby nose.

"Cut the crap, what are you sellin' me?" Flo had said. "Don't I get a lawyer for this kinda stuff?"

"Unfortunately, Mr. Magetti, no one wants to represent a low life, two-timing, bangaa like you." Mr. District Attorney finished his drag and put it out on the table next to the machine taping their conversation. "It's a shame you don't have any of your pals on the inside, Big Flo. A damn shame. All the cards seem to be stacked against you, but I'm here to give you a second chance, if you cooperate."

"What kind of deal?"

The attorneys finger hit a button on the recording device switching it off. He leaned in and beckoned the great fat bangaa to do the same. "Six months from now you'll make parole, after that you'll get 2 months probation and you'll be a free bangaa again. In exchange, you give me all the dirt you got on your little operation, including Boss Langley."

Flo wiped the sweat from his brow. "I want a lawyer," he said.

"A lawyer won't get you what I'm offering," said the attorney. "If I were you, I'd take the deal. Its six months or 10 years, Magetti. You don't need a lawyer to make that choice."

The fat bangaa had a good sweat going. The Langley's would be gunning for his brains if they ever found out. Then again he couldn't take 10 more years of this. He wiped his forehead again with his fat scaly fingers.

"I'll do it," he said. "On one condition, I never said anything. Got it?! Someone asks how you got this kinda info that's your problem. I didn't say a word. Understand?!?!"

Mr. District Attorney nodded and pressed record on the listening device. "So we have a deal?" he said. Florence nodded. The attorney made a nod towards the recording device.

"Yes we have a deal," he said and so he sang…

It was about that time. The bar was clearing out. Clearly Mr. Magetti's friends had decided to blow him off tonight. Time to start heading home. He gathered his coat and hopped off the barstool. Despite the fact that he was alone, he had still taken the liberty of giving himself a worthy buzz for the night. He teetered his way towards the exit.

Something was in his way but he couldn't quite tell what. It was a taller figure, he was wearing all black, but Flo could just make out his long white streaks of hear dangling from the dark hat. His eyes focused and so it appeared, the long crooked toothy grin. "Can I buy you a drink Mr. Magetti?"

"YOU!" he shouted but the man just stood there grinning. "What do ya want with me?! Huh?!? I haven't said but two words to ya! Can' you jus' leave me alone?"

The barman came rushing to the door. "Keep it down or I'm throwin' ya out!" he said. "The both of ya!"

The grinning man dipped his hat. "Don't worry, sir. Big Flo here is an old friend of mine. There won't be any more trouble, tonight's a big night."

Barman grunted. "Keep it that way," he croaked.

The man in leather thrusted a sobbing Florence Magetti up onto his feet and lead him to a dimly lit booth in the back of the pub. "Sit down," he growled, never erasing the eerie smile from his boney face. Flo felt his fat carcass being thrown violently into the booth. The dark man lit a cigarette. "Sorry I'm late, but your friends took longer than expected."

"What do you mean—?"

"Shut it!" he hissed. "Tonight's the night, Mr. Florence. I'm done playing games here. You and I both know why I'm here." He drummed his fingers on the table, and the fat bangaa noticed one of Saunders's rings dancing about on the index.

Florence couldn't help but shake. His friends weren't late, they were dead, he was sure of it. And he wasn't much better off, incapacitated both by liquor and by fear. He was helpless. Tears were streaming down his fat bangaa cheeks.

The grinning man finished his cigarette and stood up. "It's time to go," he said. Big Flo could do nothing but moan as the man grabbed his arm and hoisted him out his seat. The emaciated arms, it seemed, were deceptively powerful. Flo couldn't even struggle, his fear of what would happen next had seemingly paralyzed him.

In all his life, Florence had never found anyone he loved or anyone who loved him back other than himself. It was now, it seemed, that he regretted that. He regretted getting mixed up with the people he ran around with, regretted the hundreds of innocent people, including his friends, that had to died because of him, the loving parents he abandoned when he decided to join his new family. He regretted his portly shape, and his piggish way of life. And still, for some odd reason, he regretted having ratted out his brothers to Mr. District Attorney.

The grinning man dragged Mr. Magetti for another three or four blocks, to a long dark alley in the back lots of Sprohm. He laid the fat crying bangaa on the ground and opened his leather coat. He pulled out a long double-barreled rifle that was strapped to his right leg, and walked over to the bangaa carcass without a limp and no longer grinning. He loaded the gun, and aimed for the pathetic creature's head. "Any last words?" he said, coldly.

"I'm sorry!" sobbed Florence Magetti. "I'm sorry this ever happened!"

"So am I," said the man in leather. The trigger was pulled, and head of the fat bangaa exploded into a mess of red and pulp. The man stood for a moment and gave respect to the work he had done. Then he wiped the blood from his face and hair with the white handkerchief in his pocket, and strapped the smoking barrel back to his leg. He gave one long lasting look at the job, and limped down to the end of the alley.

Waiting for him was another dark figure, dressed in a similar coat, with a similar dark hat. The limping man approached this figure and whispered, "Subject terminated…"

"It took you long enough," said Boss Langley.

"I like to play around," said the grinning man. The boss handed him a great satchel of gil. The man opened the sack and began to finger through the gold. "He should have known…" he said.

"I know," said Boss Langley. "You can't hide anything from me. Did you take care of the attorney yet?"

"Yes I did," said the grinning man. He reached into his coat pocket and handed over the recording device. "But that's not what I was talking about." The boss didn't seem to care all that much. He took the device and smashed it beneath his great dark boot. The grinning man looked back down the long dark alley and admired his work one last time. "Never mess with the man in the back…"

Some people just don't appreciate that.


End file.
